


In Grace and Light

by givemeunicorns



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Facial Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 09:31:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3972931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givemeunicorns/pseuds/givemeunicorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Claire gives Matt a shave with his Dad's old straight razor. For the Daredevil Kink meme</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Grace and Light

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this post: https://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/725.html?thread=54229#cmt54229
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and make no money off this fic.

 

It was his dad's razor, his granddad's before that. The smooth metal had kept it's edge through several lifetimes of Murdock men. His dad used it to shave his face, but his grandfather hadn't, not that Matt remembered. The Murdock boys got the devil in them, his grandmother used to say, and Matt often wondered what a bearded man needed a straight razor for. It was morbid, sure, but there was something in the idea that made him keep the blade out of his box of things. He was like too much like the family straight razor, sharp and dangerous, but useful, as long as he kept his edge. Matt Murdock had the devil in him, he knew that, but he tried his best to use that sharpness to do some bit of good, to only cut the bad guys to ribbons. But people still got hurt, people still bleed even when they tried to be careful with him. Claire, Karen, Foggy, Elian, Ben.

He ran his thumb along the flat of the blade, feeling a thousand hairline nicks in the metal, the texture of the edge on his fingers. Without thinking, he pressed his thumb against the edge, felt the way the blade bit into his calloused skin, the blood welling up from the precise cut.

He heard her behind him, the steady thunder of her heart under her ribs, the smell of her shampoo and the soap she used, the smell of bleach and antiseptic and rubber, the sandalwood candle she burned when she took a bath last night. Her fingers cradled his jaw, the calloused fingers and cracked from her work in the hospital. Her touch was gentle, seemingly aware of just how much he could feel her.

She kicked his feet apart, standing between his knees as she reached for a brush, turning his head this way and that with two fingers along his jaw. He blinked, caught up in the contrast of the cool cream and the warmth of her fingers, and the harsh scratch of the badger hair brush against his skin. He could feel each bristle catching on the stubble of his jaw, and wondered briefly how this felt to the average person. He turned his focus back to Claire, before he let the texture of the brush on his face overwhelm him. She hummed a quiet, nonsensical tune under her breath. He cradled the blade in his hands, focusing in on the sound of her breath, the beat of her heart, steady and strong. Slowly, he felt his own body respond to the music of hers, his chest rising and falling in tandem with her own. In the moment, Claire was the center of his universe, the steady constant.

“You okay,” she asked quietly, setting her brush aside with a clink.

He nodded, smiling.

She reached for the razor, he fingers brushing his wrist.

“You cut your finger.”

“I know.”

"No more," she chide, and he pulled his bleeding the thumb away.

"Okay," he breathed, wiping the small line of blood on his sweat pants. 

She sighed, and he smelled concern on her, the sweet, acrid chemical smell of almost fear, heard the little change in her heart beat. It bothered her, it worried her, when he did things like that, hurt himself in ways she saw as unnecessary ways. But he released the razor easily, opening his hands and offering it to her almost reverently, and he knew she was smiling. Sadly maybe, but smiling was smiling.

The first drag of the blade across cheek was jarring, almost painful, the feel of the razor's edge pulling against his skin. He settled his hands on her hips, thumbs through the belt loops of her jeans, heedless of the sluggish trickle of blood from his sliced fingers. She was all at once soft and solid under his hands, feeling the warm of her skin through the fabric. She kept humming, the drag of the razor across his skin, the sound of the water sloshing in the bowl when she rinsed, blocking out the noise of neighbors and traffic.

He tilted his chin up when she nudged him, swallowed hard when she brought the cool metal back in contact. All it would take was the smallest flick of her wrist and she could kill him if she wanted. Open up a vein, and he'd bleed out. This close, probably wouldn't even be able to stop her if he felt it coming. She was a nurse, she had the precision, the knowledge, to murder him and he couldn't stop her. There was a helplessness in it that thrilled him, something about putting himself in her hands and trusting her not to use the blade he'd handed her against him, that made his fingers tighten on her hips. Trusting people to take care of him, one hundred percent, was not something he'd really done since his dad died. Stick only helped with the fighting, but he'd crushed the emotional needs of a child under his heel and scorned them. Foggy had cared for him, about him, but Matt had kept the training and the fighting secret. He'd said it was to protect Foggy, but he knew, in his heart, it was to protect himself too. Matt Murdock was like his father, his grandfather before him. Matt had the devil in him and he feared that Foggy would run screaming from it, as he well should have, if he found out. Foggy had called him a lunatic, a fanatic, a murderer; and even now, sometimes, he thought he caught a whiff of fear off of his friend when things turned bloody in Hell's Kitchen. Not fear for Matt, but fear of him.

Claire had known exactly who he was the night she'd pulled him out of that dumpster. She'd known who he was and what he did when she'd put a needle in his chest to keep him from suffocating. She'd known exactly who and what he was that night she'd saved him from bleeding to death on his own living room floor, and she knew it now. If Matt had the devil in him, then Claire Temple's soul was the light and grace of God, something powerful and resonating, kind and merciless in turns, beautiful in the wrath of it's justice. Claire was a nurse who helped him torture a monster, she was a healer who'd laughed in the face of the men who meant to kill her when she knew the Devil was on their tales. She was not helpless, she was not toothless, and Matt was ready to bow at her altar with nothing more than a word. She knew how to tug at him, how to pull him, how to uncurl the iron grip he kept on himself, on his world, on the masks he needed to wear to be the person he needed to be to the people who needed him to be it. He handed her his control without a second thought, letting her ring the fear, the loss, out of him bit by bit. She could cut his throat right now, both of them knew it, but he trusted her not to.

“You okay,” she asked, tilting his chin, half turning to rinse the blade in the water.

She was nearly finished, his cheeks smooth and damp. He wanted to reach up and touch them but he wouldn't until she told him to. She liked his cheeks smooth, and she liked best off all to do it herself. He nodded, smiling, breathing her in. The beat of her heart, the rhythm of her breath were content but there the was an underlying sweetness of something heady and familiar. Being given this kind of power got her off almost much as giving it over did him.

“Good boy,” She cooed and he felt his heart skip in his chest, fingers curling on her hips again.

 


End file.
